OXFORD 


Rctured  by  Ernest  Haslehust 


Described  by  F,  D.How 


HCSB   L1SRARV 
X->' 


MAGDALEN    BRIDGE   AND  TOWER 


OXFORD 


DESCRIBED     BY     F.     D.     HOW 
PICTURED  BY  E.  W.  HASLEHUST 


DANA    ESTES    (Si.    CO. 
BOSTON 


Printed  in  Great  Britain 


Peauttful  Cnglantr 


Volumes  Ready  i 

OXFORD 

THE  ENGLISH  LAKES 

CANTERBURY 

SHAKESPEARE-LAND 

THE  THAMES 

WINDSOR  CASTLE 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


Page 

Magdalen  Bridge  and  Tower Frontispiece 

Magdalen  College  from  the  Cherwell             k       .       .       .  8 

Oxford  from  Headington  Hill 12 

Martyrs'  Memorial  and  St.  Giles 16 

The  College  Barges  and  Folly  Bridge 20 

Fisher  Row  and  Remains  of  Oxford  Castle          .       .       .24 

The  Cottages,  Worcester  College  Gardens           4       .       .  28 

Old  Clarendon  Building,  Broad  Street 32 

Christ  Church 36 

Brasenose  College  and  Radcliffe  Library  Rotunda      .       .  42 

Botanic  Gardens  and  Magdalen  Tower         ....  48 

Iffley  Mill , 52 


For  beauty  and  for  romance  the  first  place  among 
all  the  cities  of  the  United  Kingdom  must  be  given 
to  Oxford.  There  is  but  one  other — Edinburgh — which 
can  lay  any  serious  claim  to  rival  her.  Gazing  upon 
Scotland's  capital  from  Arthur's  Seat,  and  dreaming 
visions  of  Scotland's  wondrous  past,  it  might  seem 
as  though  the  beauty  and  romance  of  the  scene  could 
not  well  be  surpassed.  But  there  is  a  certain  solemnity, 
almost  amounting  to  sadness,  in  both  these  aspects 
of  the  Northern  capital  which  is  altogether  absent 
from  the  sparkling  beauty  of  the  city  on  the  Isis,  and 
from  the  genius  of  the  place. 

The  impression  that  Oxford  makes  upon  those  who, 
familiar  with  her  from  early  years,  have  learnt  to  know 
and  love  her  in  later  life  is  remarkable.  Teeming 


6  OXFORD 

with  much  that  is  ancient,  she  appears  the  embodiment 
of  youth  and  beauty.  Exquisite  in  line,  sparkling  with 
light  and  colour,  she  seems  ever  bright  and  young, 
while  her  sons  fall  into  decay  and  perish.  "Alma 
Mater!"  they  cry,  and  love  her  for  her  loveliness, 
till  their  dim  eyes  can  look  on  her  no  more. 

And  this  is  for  the  reason  that  the  true  lovableness 
of  Oxford  cannot  be  learnt  at  once.  As  her  charms 
have  grown  from  age  to  age,  so  their  real  apprecia- 
tion is  gradual.  Not  that  she  cannot  catch  the  eye  of 
one  who  sees  her  for  the  first  time,  and,  smiling, 
hold  him  captive.  This  she  can  do  now  and  then ;  but 
even  so  her  new  lover  has  yet  to  learn  her  precious- 
ness. 

It  is  worth  while  to  try  to  understand  what  are 
the  charms  that  have  grown  with  her  growth.  There 
was  a  day  when  in  herself  Oxford  was  unlovely  to 
behold,  and  when  romance  had  not  begun  to  cling 
to  her  like  some  beautiful  diaphanous  robe.  It  is 
possible  to  imagine  a  low-lying  cluster  of  wooden 
houses  forming  narrow  streets,  and  occupying  the 
land  between  the  Cherwell  and  the  I  sis,  nearly  a 
thousand  years  ago.  In  those  days  no  doubt  it  was 
reckoned  a  town  of  some  importance,  but,  with  the 
possible  exception  of  the  minster  of  St.  Frideswide, 
there  was  nothing  to  relieve  its  squalid  appearance. 

After  the  Norman  Conquest,  when  most  of  the  houses 


OXFORD  7 

in  the  town  had  been  destroyed,  there  began  to  be 
a  certain  severe  dignity  rising  up  with  the  building 
of  the  forts  and  the  castle  by  Robert  D'Oily,  who 
came  over  with  King  William.  The  fine  and  massive 
tower,  with  a  swiftly  flowing  branch  of  the  Isis  at  its 
very  feet,  forming  a  natural  moat,  still  stands  as  the 
single  relic  of  D'Oily's  castle,  and  the  first  in  point 
of  age  of  the  existing  charms  of  Oxford.  Standing, 
as  it  does,  inextricably  mixed  up  with  breweries 
and  the  county  jail,  it  must  feel  itself  in  a  forlorn 
position,  and  slighted  by  those  who  give  it  a  mere 
glance  on  their  way  from  the  station  to  view  colleges, 
old  indeed,  but,  in  the  opinion  of  the  ancient  tower, 
things  of  mushroom  growth !  And  yet,  close  by  stands 
something  older  even  than  the  tower.  Inside  the 
castle  walls  was  an  immense  mound,  and  there  it 
stands  to  this  day.  No  one  rightly  knows  its  age, 
and,  except  for  the  romance  which  hangs  about 
anything,  the  origin  of  which  is  lost  in  the  mists  of 
ages,  it  adds  but  little  to  the  charm  of  Oxford. 

Another  grand  old  tower  is  said  to  have  been  the 
work  of  Robert  D'Oily,  viz.  that  of  St.  Michael's 
Church  in  Cornmarket  Street.  Besides  being  part  of 
a  church,  this  was  also  one  of  the  watch  towers  on 
the  city  walls.  It  is  well  worth  looking  at,  for  it  has 
the  further  interest  of  having  adjoined  the  north  gate 
into  the  city,  over  which  were  certain  chambers 


8  OXFORD 

forming  the  Bocardo  Prison,  which  remained  in  use 
until  comparatively  modern  times. 

The  severity  which  marked  the  outward  appearance 
of  the  city  during  the  first  few  centuries  after  the 
Norman  Conquest  gradually  disappeared,  to  make  way 
for  the  brighter  and  more  exquisite  beauty  of  later 
days.  Thus,  in  the  fifteenth  century,  the  massive 
walls  and  watch  towers  still  dominated  the  place. 
From  close  to  Magdalen  College  they  ran  by  the 
edge  of  New  College  gardens  (where  the  most  perfect 
remains  are  still  to  be  seen),  and  then  turned  to  go 
along  the  city  ditch  (now  Broad  Street),  and  so  to 
St.  Michael's  in  "the  Corn",  and  away  down  to  the 
castle  tower  near  St.  Thomas's.  Nowadays  these  severe 
lines  have  practically  disappeared.  Oxford  has  laid 
aside  the  armour  which  once  she  had  in  self-defence 
to  wear,  and  has  clothed  herself  in  lovelier  garb. 

One  by  one  the  objects  upon  which  we  feast  our 
eyes  to-day  sprang  up,  and  more  and  more  beautiful 
became  the  view  of  Oxford.  Mr.  Andrew  Lang  in 
his  charming  book  tells  us  that  at  the  end  of  the 
thirteenth  century  "the  beautiful  tower  of  Merton 
was  still  almost  fresh,  and  the  spires  of  St.  Mary's, 
of  old  All  Saints,  of  St.  Frideswide,  and  the  strong 
tower  of  New  College  on  the  city  wall,  were  the  most 
prominent  features  in  a  bird's-eye  view  of  the  town." 
To  these  must  be  added  (as  has  been  mentioned)  the 


OXFORD  9 

walls  and  watch  towers,  which  must  have  lent  a  certain 
grimness  to  the  whole. 

Two  hundred  years  later  Oxford's  most  beautiful 
tower  came  into  being,  on  the  site  of  what  had  been 
the  ancient  Hospital  of  St.  John,  and  had  been  given 
about  the  year  1560  by  King  Henry  VI  to  William 
Patten,  in  order  that  he  might  there  establish  the 
college  of  St.  Mary  Magdalen. 

Magdalen  Tower,  rising  150  feet  in  exquisite  pro- 
portion, and  standing  just  where  the  Cherwell  is 
spanned  by  the  well-known  bridge,  is  in  the  opinion 
of  many  the  fairest  sight  in  Oxford.  The  way  in  which 
it  springs  from  a  pile  of  embattlements,  and  the  grace 
of  its  pose  and  form,  claim  for  it  more  than  a  word 
of  admiration  for  its  share  in  the  adornment  of  Oxford. 

So  far  the  view  of  the  town  was  dependent  for 
beauty  upon  its  spires  and  towers.  To-day  it  would 
be  allowed  by  all  that  a  great  deal  has  been  added 
to  this  beauty  by  the  domes,  which  have  brought  their 
dignity  and  rounded  lines  to  the  general  scenic  effect. 

It  was  not  till  two  centuries  had  passed  from  the 
creation  of  Magdalen  Tower  that  the  central  gate- 
way into  Christ  Church  was  surmounted  by  the  well- 
known  Tom  Tower,  erected  by  Sir  Christopher  Wren 
to  hold  "Great  Tom",  a  mighty  bell  which  once  be- 
longed to  Osney  Abbey.  This  was  the  first  of  the 
domes  to  rear  its  head.  But  it  was  not  long  left 


io  OXFORD 

solitary.  Seventy  years  afterwards  the  great  dome 
of  the  Radcliffe  Camera  rose  up  in  the  space  between 
All  Souls  and  Brasenose  colleges,  and  was  thence- 
forth the  first  object  to  take  the  eye  of  one  who 
looks  on  Oxford  lying  glorious  in  her  meadows. 

And  so  we  come  to  one  aspect  of  the  place.  For 
him  who  wants  to  look  upon  her  as  a  whole,  to  realize 
at  once  that  he  is  drawing  near  to  one  who  is  all 
beautiful,  everything  depends  upon  the  manner  of  his 
approach. 

It  is  probably  true  that  the  people  of  a  hundred 
years  ago  had  the  best  of  it.  In  very  early  days, 
when  men  rode  on  pack  horses  or  were  drawn  thither 
in  wains,  or  tramped  through  marshy  tracts  and  by 
evil  roads,  their  eyes  were  apt  to  be  fixed  upon  the 
ground  lest  they  or  the  horse  they  rode  should  put 
foot  in  a  hole.  Then,  too,  the  view  they  obtained  was 
not  at  first  so  beautiful  as  it  has  since  become. 

To-day  the  disadvantages  are  greater  still.  Far 
the  larger  number  of  people  approach  Oxford  by 
train,  and  although  on  drawing  near  the  city  from 
the  south  a  sight  is  obtained  of  towers  and  spires, 
it  is  by  no  means  a  happy  point  of  view;  and  the 
visitor  is  probably  engaged  in  getting  his  bag  out 
of  the  rack  and  collecting  his  papers  and  umbrella, 
when  he  might  be  obtaining  a  first  impression,  though 
a  poor  one,  of  Oxford.  Should  he  be  more  fortunate, 


OXFORD  II 

and  approach  by  motor  car,  again  he  loses  much.  A 
vision,  perhaps,  for  a  moment,  as  he  tops  some  rising 
ground,  and  then,  before  he  has  had  time  to  gasp 
his  admiration,  he  finds  himself  bounded  on  either 
side  by  the  unlovely  villas  of  a  suburb. 

No,  the  coaching  days  were  the  best  for  those  who 
wanted  to  see  what  Oxford  looked  like  as  a  whole. 
From  the  top  of  the  London  coach,  as  Headington 
Hill  was  reached,  there  must  have  been  on  a  summer 
morning  a  minute  or  two  of  ecstasy  for  those  who 
first  caught  sight  of  the  glittering  city  at  their  feet. 
Not  quite  so  fair  a  view,  but  beautiful  enough,  was 
theirs  who  came  by  way  of  Cumnor  from  the  Berk- 
shire Downs;  but  the  coach  top  was  the  place,  from 
whichever  side  the  traveller  came. 

And  yet  there  is  something  better  still.  I  would 
have,  could  I  arrange  it  for  my  friend,  a  more  gradual 
approach  yet.  I  would  take  him  off  the  converging 
roads  while  yet  Oxford  was  unseen.  I  would  lead 
him  in  the  early  morning  of  a  summer  day — it  must 
ever  be  summer — away  where  the  river  washes  the 
feet  of  the  old  town  of  Abingdon,  and  thence  by  plea- 
sant paths  through  Sunningwell  we  would  ascend 
Boar's  Hill.  There  on  a  grassy  spot,  a  hanging  wood 
partly  revealed  below  us,  we  would  lie  face  down- 
wards on  the  turf  and  gaze  on  Oxford  lying  far 
below  —  the  Oxford  Turner  saw  —  Oxford  in  fairy 


12  OXFORD 

wreaths  of  light -blue  haze,  which  as  they  part,  now 
here  now  there,  reveal  her  sparkling  beauty.  There 
is  no  other  place  so  fit  to  see  her  first;  no  day 
too  long  to  gaze  on  her  from  here,  and  mark  fresh 
beauties  as  the  shadows  change.  Here  we  would  lie 
and  marvel  at  the  scene,  then  let  the  dreams  of  days 
gone  by — the  days  that  wove  the  long  romance  of 
Oxford — enthral  us  till  we  hardly  know  whether  time 
is  or  was. 

Away  there  to  the  east  and  south  the  river  shines. 
Now  in  the  heat  of  summer  well  within  its  reedy 
banks,  but  often  spreading  itself  in  flood-time  far 
and  wide.  So  those  two  Franciscans  find  it.  They 
draw  near  to  Oxford,  but  when  a  mile  or  two  from 
Abingdon  are  checked  by  many  waters,  and  take 
refuge  in  a  house  in  a  wood  belonging  to  the  monas- 
tery of  that  place.  Nearly  seven  hundred  years  ago! 
And  yet  they  come  into  the  dream  as  if  it  all  had 
happened  yesterday,  and  they  were  still  to  set  on 
foot  the  labours  of  their  order  in  the  low  wooden 
slums  of  St.  Ebbe's,  and  still  to  train  such  men  as 
Duns  Scotus  and  Roger  Bacon. 

And  the  scene  changes  as  the  eye  follows  the  river 
to  the  city  walls.  There  is  a  mellower  sunshine  on 
the  plain,  and  autumn  mists  hang  lightly  over  tower 
and  spire.  What  is  that  slender  blue  column  which 
rises  above  the  centre  of  the  town  and  melts  into 


OXFORD  13 

the  hazy  air?  Surely  it  is  the  smoke  of  the  pyre  on 
which  the  martyrs  have  but  now  perished!  Ridley  and 
Latimer — for  months  they  have  been  face  to  face  with 
death.  Their  figures  move  through  the  streets.  From 
Bocardo,  the  town  prison,  they  are  led  to  separate  con- 
finement in  other  parts  of  the  city.  Now  to  St.  Mary's 
Church,  now  to  the  Divinity  School  are  they  taken 
to  be  examined — a  miserable  farce — by  those  who 
seek  to  curry  favour  with  a  bloody  queen.  At  last 
the  end.  Was  it  this  morning  that  the  sheriff's 
officers  came  to  lead  Ridley  from  the  mayor's  house, 
where  he  had  passed  a  peaceful  night,  and  risen  to 
write  a  letter  on  behalf  of  certain  tenants  of  his  in 
London,  that  justice  might  be  done  them  when  he 
died?  There  he  goes  in  close  custody,  dressed  in  his 
bishop's  gown  and  tippet,  with  a  velvet  scull  cap  on 
his  head.  Behind  him  comes  Latimer,  an  old,  old 
man  in  threadbare  gown  and  leathern  girdle,  keep- 
ing up  as  well  as  he  can  with  the  rest.  They  pass 
along  what  is  now  called  Cornmarket  Street,  and 
under  the  Bocardo  gateway,  where  is  St.  Michael's 
Church,  and  as  they  get  close  beneath  the  prison 
each  casts  a  look  upwards  if  he  should  see  Archbishop 
Cranmer  at  the  window. 

So  they  go  on  a  few  yards  more  till  the  city  ditch 
is  reached,  which  now  is  Broad  Street.  There  are  the 
crowd,  the  faggots,  and  the  stake.  No  time  is  lost. 


14  OXFORD 

Cheerfully  they  two  embrace  and  strip  themselves  for 
death.  The  chains  secure  them  to  the  posts.  The 
bags  of  gunpowder  are  hung  around  their  necks. 
They  loudly  commend  their  souls  to  God.  Soon  comes 
release  to  the  aged  Latimer.  The  flames  have  leapt 
up  to  the  powder,  and  in  a  moment  his  sufferings 
are  done.  Not  so  merciful  is  the  end  of  his  brother 
martyr.  Slowly,  with  shocking  agony,  his  lower  limbs 
are  burnt  away,  and  not  till  he  has  suffered  the  ex- 
tremity of  pain  does  he  at  last  join  Latimer  in  Para- 
dise. That  little  slender  column  of  blue  smoke!  So 
was  the  dream  provoked,  and  the  pathetic  tragedy 
°f  J555  has  passed  before  our  eyes  to-day. 

The  summer  sun  shines  out,  a  gentle  air  blows  off 
the  mists,  and  from  afar  the  road  to  Woodstock  is  all 
lively  with  a  gallant  company.  Mary  is  dead.  The 
University  have  sent  a  deputation  to  meet  Elizabeth 
the  Queen  at  Godstow.  No  longer  a  prisoner  at  Wood- 
stock, she  rides  gaily  into  Oxford.  At  the  northern 
gate  she  is  welcomed  by  the  mayor,  and  the  city  be- 
stows its  gifts  of  plate  and  money.  For  days  her 
scholarly  mind  is  entertained  with  public  disputations, 
relieved  at  intervals  by  theatrical  shows.  It  is  all 
brilliant  and  light-hearted;  a  weight  has  been  taken 
from  the  country. 

Then  comes  a  vision  of  such  times  as  Oxford  has 
never  seen  before  or  since.  The  city  is  in  turmoil. 


OXFORD  15 

The  whole  countryside  is  alive  with  troops.  There 
is  civil  war.  The  University  is  for  the  King,  the 
townsmen  (had  they  their  way)  are  Roundheads  to 
a  man.  Citizens  in  scant  numbers,  scholars  in  pro- 
fusion, are  working  at  the  trenches  to  fortify  the 
place.  What  with  these  trenches  across  from  the 
Cherwell  past  Wadham  and  St.  John's  and  so  by  St 
Giles'  Church,  to  the  Isis  on  the  north,  and  from  Folly 
Bridge,  through  Christ  Church  meadows  and  Mer- 
ton  gardens  (where  the  remains  can  still  be  seen)  to 
Magdalen  on  the  south,  and  with  the  numerous  rivers 
and  conduits  which  form  so  many  natural  moats  on 
west  and  east,  the  city  soon  becomes  impregnable. 
To-day  such  puny  efforts  would  be  ludicrous,  but  in 
those  times  of  cannon  balls  which  could  scarcely 
pierce  a  two-inch  board,  they  more  than  suffice,  did 
he  for  whom  the  work  was  done  but  have  a  better 
heart. 

In  Christ  Church  and  in  New  College  quads  there 
is  a  sound  of  drums  and  tramping  feet  as  the  bands 
of  pikemen  and  halberdiers  furnished  by  the  students 
are  busily  at  drill.  Magdalen  Bridge  is  fortified.  On 
the  great  tower  hard  by  stones  have  been  heaped  to 
hurl  upon  a  passing  enemy,  but  are  destined  to  be 
never  used. 

Now  there  is  a  fresh  stir.  The  bands  of  armed 
students  march  through  all  the  streets,  finally  parade 


16  OXFORD 

the  High,  and  disband  at  the  Divinity  School — a  de- 
monstration to  impress  the  townsmen  and  encourage 
the  royal  guests. 

Side  by  side  with  all  this  warlike  preparation,  and 
mingled  with  the  martial  ring  of  steel  and  discipline 
of  troops,  Oxford  presents  an  aspect  of  frivolity  un- 
equalled except  by  an  Eights'  Week  of  to-day.  The 
Queen  has  her  Court  at  Merton,  and  the  city  is  full 
of  ladies  of  high  degree.  Their  flounces  and  their  fur- 
belows are  everywhere,  and  daily  they  congregate  in 
Christ  Church  meadows  and  Trinity  Grove,  to  hold 
revels  displeasing  to  the  Heads  of  Houses,  who  fear 
for  the  youth  in  their  charge,  and  a  mockery  to  their 
own  hearts,  which  are  anxious  enough.  Their  dresses 
may  be  fine,  but  they  themselves  are  lodged  in  garrets, 
and  they  miss  the  dainty  fare  to  which  they  are  accus- 
tomed. And  all  the  while  the  wit  and  learning  of  the 
University  knows  little  diminution.  It  takes,  perhaps, 
a  lighter  and  more  courtly  tone,  as  it  strives  to  amuse 
and  gratify  the  unwonted  throng  it  entertains.  War, 
women,  wit — all  stirred  together  in  one  seat  of  learning! 
Surely  never  was  such  a  medley  known! 

Then  from  each  point  of  vantage  within  our  view 
on  that  hillside  —  nay,  from  the  very  spot  on  which 
we  lie  and  dream — there  are  continual  movements  of 
the  troops.  The  King  brings  his  cavalry  right  here, 
within  a  mile  or  two  of  Abingdon,  waiting  to  do 


(0147) 


MARTYRS'   MEMORIAL  AND  ST.  GILES 


OXFORD  17 

battle  with  Essex  should  he  advance  from  Reading. 
Brown  leads  the  Roundheads  now  to  Wolvercote,  now 
to  Shotover,  and  anon  to  Abingdon.  Down  there  by 
Sandford  Ferry  Essex  takes  his  troops  across  the 
river,  skirts  the  city  to  the  eastwards  and  makes  his 
camp  at  I  slip  for  a  while,  then  on  across  Cherwell  and 
so  to  Bletchington  and  Woodstock,  blockading  all  ap- 
proaches on  the  north.  Now  one  sees  glitter  of  steel 
and  gleam  of  pennon  to  the  west,  as  Waller  is  beat 
back  at  Newbridge  on  the  I  sis,  above  Eynsham. 
Scarcely  has  this  scene  flitted  through  the  brain,  than 
from  far  away  eastwards,  hard  by  Chinnor,  there  seems 
to  come  a  shouting  and  a  noise  of  horses  at  the  gallop, 
as  Rupert  bursts  upon  the  enemy's  convoy,  and  drives 
them  into  the  Chiltern  Hills,  himself  returning  with 
his  prisoners  and  spoils  by  way  of  Chalgrove,  when 
again  comes  sound  of  battle,  and  he  in  his  turn  is 
for  a  moment  held  at  bay  by  Roundheads'  "  insolence  ". 
No  matter  which  way  we  turn  our  eyes,  each  bit  of 
rising  ground,  each  bridge  across  a  stream  gives  birth 
to  some  imagining  of  skirmish  or  of  ambuscade  in 
that  long  civil  war  that  waged  round  Oxford. 

One  dream  more.  Naseby  has  been  fought  and 
lost.  Fairfax  is  at  the  gates  of  Oxford,  where  Charles 
has  once  again  sought  shelter.  The  city  might  have 
resisted  long,  but  his  heart  has  failed  him.  It  is  three 
o'clock  on  an  April  morning,  and  dark.  A  little 

(0147)  2 


18  OXFORD 

company  of  three  —  a  gentleman,  a  scholar,  and  a 
servant — ride  out  of  the  city  over  Magdalen  Bridge. 
The  servant  is  the  King.  So  comes  the  beginning 
of  the  end,  and  Oxford  has  no  more  visions  of  the 
ill-fated  Charles. 

Thus  dreaming  an  hour  or  two  has  passed  away, 
and  she  still  lies  there  before  us  unexplored — beckoning 
us  to  her  with  every  charm  that  delights  the  eye 
and  kindles  boundless  expectation.  Let  us,  then, 
draw  closer  and  get  a  nearer  view.  Old  as  she  is,  she 
invites  an  inspection  as  close  as  we  will.  The  ravages 
of  time  do  not  in  her  case  mar  the  loveliness  which 
each  year  seems  to  renew  and  to  increase.  Most 
people  are  conscious  of  the  fact  that  in  looking  back 
upon  their  past  lives,  especially  upon  the  days  of  their 
childhood,  it  is  the  sunshine  that  abides  with  them 
and  not  the  shadow.  In  all  the  memories,  let  us  say, 
of  a  garden  in  which  we  played  as  children,  the  days 
are  hot  and  bright,  the  flowers  always  blooming. 

So  it  is  with  Oxford.  Heaven  knows  the  place  is 
often  enough  shrouded  in  cold,  wet  mist:  for  weeks 
together  the  streets  are  muddy  beyond  all  other 
streets:  at  the  beginning  of  each  term  (save  that  one 
by  courtesy  called  "summer")  the  chemists'  shops 
are  (or  used  to  be)  filled  with  rows  of  bottles  of  quinine, 
to  enable  the  poor  undergraduate  to  struggle  against 
a  depressing  climate.  But  who  remembers  all  these 


OXFORD  19 

things  in  after  years?  The  man  of  fifty  hears  Oxford 
mentioned,  and  there  comes  back  to  him  at  once  a 
place  where  old  grey  buildings  throw  shadows  across 
shaven  lawns;  where  the  young  green  of  the  chestnut 
makes  a  brilliant  splash  of  colour  above  the  college 
garden  wall;  where  cool  bright  waters  wind  beneath 
ancient  willows,  and  it  is  good  to  bask  in  flannels 
in  a  punt.  In  fact  it  is  the  few  days  of  real  summer 
— the  two  or  three  in  each  "summer"  term — that  he 
remembers  in  accordance  with  memory's  happy  scheme, 
in  which  it  is  the  fittest  that  survive. 

It  is  in  summer,  then,  that  we  draw  near  to  feast 
our  eyes  more  intimately  on  Oxford's  charms.  Not 
first  of  all  upon  those  which  she  hides  away  within 
her  outer  cloak  of  beauty,  but  upon  the  garment 
which  she  borrows  from  Dame  Nature,  and  wears 
with  such  inimitable  grace.  Meadows,  gardens,  rivers, 
trees:  these  are  the  materials  of  which  the  robe  is 
woven,  and  to  each  belong  at  least  some  names  that 
have  become  famous  beyond  the  boundaries  of  Oxford. 

Who  has  not  heard  of  Port  Meadow — the  town's 
meadow,  as  the  name  infers?  Low  it  lies  on  the 
river  bank  to  the  north-west  of  the  town.  For 
hundreds  of  years  —  since  the  time,  indeed,  of  the 
Domesday  Book — it  has  belonged  to  the  freemen  of 
Oxford,  and  to-day  may  still  be  seen  their  flocks  of 
geese,  white  patterned  on  a  ground  of  green,  with 


20  OXFORD 

here  and  there  a  horse  with  tired  feet  ending  his 
days  where  grass  is  soft  and  plentiful.  The  Isis,  the 
Upper  River  as  here  it  is  commonly  called,  has 
a  special  beauty  as  it  flows  along  the  edge  of  Port 
Meadow,  for  above  it  hang  the  Witham  woods,  and 
on  its  edge  is  the  little  hamlet  of  Binsey,  giving  a 
touch  of  human  interest  and  rural  picturesqueness  to 
the  scene.  It  is  worth  while  to  row  or  sail  against 
the  stream  until  the  whole  of  the  meadow  is  passed 
by,  for  then  comes  Godstow,  where  Fair  Rosamond 
found  refuge,  and  where  she  was  at  last  laid  to  rest. 
It  must  in  all  honesty  be  confessed  that  to  the  average 
undergraduate  the  place  was  reckoned  desirable,  not 
so  much  on  account  of  the  historical  interest  just 
mentioned,  as  because,  after  a  long  pull  up  the  river 
on  a  summer  afternoon,  it  was  possible  to  obtain  at 
the  little  inn  upon  the  river  bank  what  was  euphemis- 
tically called  ueel  tea",  a  meal  which,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  consisted  of  stewed  eels  washed  down  by 
unlimited  libations  of  cider-cup! 

Far  smaller  in  extent,  but  even  more  famous,  is 
the  tree-girt  space  called  Christ  Church  Meadow,  lying 
between  that  college  and  the  river.  Port  Meadow 
may  be  said  to  be  a  wide  bright  outskirt  of  the  natural 
robe  of  Oxford:  Christ  Church  Meadow,  with  its  Broad 
Walk  and  its  mighty  trees,  is  like  a  fold  about  her 
feet  deep-trimmed  and  bordered  with  a  silver  braid. 


OXFORD  21 

It  is  here  that  on  Show  Sunday,  in  Commemoration 
Week,  in  June,  those  who  hold  high  places  in  the 
University,  with  favoured  guests,  and  some  few  under- 
graduates, pace  up  and  down,  or  used  to  pace  in 
days  gone  by;  for  it  belongs  to  a  more  modern  pen 
to  say  whether  the  old  custom  still  obtains,  or  whether 
it  has  passed  away  with  other  things  of  ceremony, 
such  as  (to  compare  small  things  with  great)  the 
custom  of  forty  years  ago,  in  pursuance  of  which  an 
undergraduate  would  now  and  then  array  himself  in 
his  most  brilliant  attire  and  saunter  up  and  down  the 
High.  Does  the  old  street  feel  slighted,  one  wonders, 
at  the  fact  that  it  is  "done"  no  more? 

Close  by  the  meadow  the  college  barges  line  the 
banks  of  the  I  sis,  and  then  come  other  meadows  on 
either  side — meadows  nameless  and  undignified  by 
pageantry,  but  sacred  to  Oxford's  special  flower,  the 
fritillary,  and  stretching  away  to  where  Iffley  stands, 
with  its  memories  of  J.  H.  Newman,  and  where  the 
old  mill,  beloved  of  painters,  was  burnt  down  a  few 
years  ago. 

One  other  meadow  there  is,  smaller  than  either  of 
those  already  mentioned,  and  less  beautiful  in  itself, 
though  highly  favoured  in  its  immediate  surroundings. 
It  stands  within  the  grounds  of  Magdalen  College, 
and  is  bordered  on  either  side  by  the  divided  waters 
of  the  Cherwell,  before  they  pass  beneath  Magdalen 


22  OXFORD 

Bridge.  Around  this  meadow  is  a  shady  path  beneath 
an  avenue  of  trees,  and  it  is  this  path  that  attracts 
attention  to  the  meadow;  for  it  is  said  that  it  was 
here  that  Addison  loved  to  pace  up  and  down,  as  in 
the  early  years  of  the  eighteenth  century  he  thought 
out  his  essays  for  the  Tatler  or  Spectator. 

The  rivers  of  Oxford — the  Isis  and  the  Cherwell— 
are  so  much  part  of  her  meadow  loveliness,  that  the 
one  seems  almost  to  include  the  others.  Where  the 
meadows  are  the  fairest,  there  the  rivers  gleam  and 
sparkle  in  the  summer  sun  of  memory.  The  Isis, 
stately  stream,  proud  of  the  great  oarsmen  she  has 
taught,  and  of  historic  boats  that  she  has  borne;  the 
Cherwell,  winding,  secretive,  alluring,  willow-girt,  whis- 
pering of  men  and  maidens,  and  of  the  dream  days  of 
ambitious  youth.  Each  river  has  its  bridge.  The 
mightier  stream,  as  is  most  fitting,  spanned  where 
for  centuries  the  road  has  passed  from  Oxford  into 
Berkshire;  the  little  Cherwell,  to  make  up  for  any 
loss  in  navigable  importance,  crossed  near  Magdalen 
Tower  by  the  lovely  bridge  which  was  built  over  the 
two  branches  of  the  stream  more  than  two  hundred 
years  ago. 

The  meadows  and  the  rivers  bring  to  mind  the 
trees.  What  and  where  would  be  the  loveliness  of 
Oxford  without  her  trees?  Some  have  already  been 
mentioned — the  stately  elms  of  the  Broad  Walk,  and 


OXFORD  23 

the  old  gnarled  willows  along  the  Cherwell's  banks. 
But  there  are  others,  needing  perhaps  a  little  looking 
for,  but  none  the  less  an  integral  part  of  Oxford's 
beauty  when  once  found.  One  of  these,  the  great 
cedar  in  the  Fellows'  garden  at  Wadham,  was  wrecked 
in  a  gale  not  so  very  long  ago,  and  many  who  had 
been  familiar  with  its  dark-green  foliage  contrasting 
with  the  soft  grey  of  the  chapel  walls,  feel  almost 
as  though  they  had  lost  a  friend. 

Then  just  across  the  road  there  are  the  limes  of 
Trinity,  pollarded  every  seven  years  to  form  the  roof 
of  an  avenue,  a  most  retired  spot,  but  counting  for 
much  with  those  who  love  green  leaves  and  dappled 
shade. 

Of  the  trees  of  Oxford  pages  might  be  written.  They 
are  everywhere,  though  not  everywhere  in  prominence. 
Often  enough  it  is  just  the  peep,  the  suggestion  of 
hidden  beauty,  that  is  seen  as  we  pass  from  one  college 
to  another  and  a  green  bough  overtops  the  wall. 
Lovers  of  Venice  know  how  delightful  is  the  same 
thing  here  and  there  along  a  side  canal,  where  a  tree- 
top  is  reflected  with  a  crumbling  wall  in  the  still  water 
below.  In  Oxford  these  overhanging  boughs  have  no 
reflections,  but  the  patch  of  purple  shadow  on  the 
pavement  is  often  as  valuable  to  the  picture.  Talk- 
ing of  Venice  brings  to  mind  a  bit  of  Oxford  that 
must  often  remind  the  wayfarer  to  and  from  the  rail- 


24  OXFORD 

way  of  the  Italian  city.  Not  far  from  the  old  castle 
tower  that  has  been  already  mentioned,  a  branch  of 
the  river  flows  in  a  lovely  curve,  and  has  upon  one 
side  weather-stained  old  brick  walls,  and  on  the 
other  a  causeway  upon  which  stand  ancient  gabled 
houses.  These  buildings  and  the  causeway  reflect  in 
the  grey-green  water  of  the  river,  and  when  the  posts 
that  edge  the  latter  are  taken  into  account,  and 
a  figure  or  two  lounging  by  the  rails  are  repeated  in 
the  reflections,  the  whole  scene  is  not  a  little  re- 
miniscent of  Venice  in  a  quiet  scheme  of  colour. 

But  this  has  nothing  to  do  with  Oxford's  trees. 
Before  turning  our  thoughts  to  any  of  her  other 
beauties,  that  noble  chestnut  tree  must  be  remem- 
bered which  stands  in  Exeter  garden,  and,  surmount- 
ing the  wall,  shades  some  of  the  Brasenose  College 
rooms.  In  one  of  these  lived  Bishop  Heber,  and  the 
tree  on  which  he  looked  from  his  window  has  ever 
since  been  called  by  his  name. 

It  is  but  natural  that  such  thoughts  as  these  should 
bring  to  mind  the  Oxford  gardens,  which  some  have 
thought  the  very  choicest  jewels  that  she  wears.  And 
indeed  there  is  an  indescribable  charm  in  these  old 
college  gardens,  with  their  trees  and  their  herbaceous 
borders,  their  lawns  and  their  high  old  walls — a  charm 
which  must,  one  fancies,  have  grown  gradually,  so  that 
it  depends  for  its  existence  not  so  much  upon  the 


FISHER   ROW  AND  REMAINS  OF  OXFORD  CASTLG 


OXFORD  25 

actual  beauty  of  each  spot,  as  upon  the  spirit  and 
associations  that  differentiate  them  from  all  other 
gardens.  Not  that  they  have  not  beauty  of  a  most 
enchanting  kind.  St.  John's,  New  College,  Worcester 
— to  name  the  three  that  occur  most  readily — possess 
gardens  of  special  loveliness,  and  the  two  former  of 
great  size,  that  of  St.  John's  being  five  acres  in  ex- 
tent. It  is  to  this  that  one  should  find  one's  way  to 
see  the  most  fascinating  garden  of  all.  The  front 
of  the  buildings,  with  the  beautiful  library  windows, 
suggests  some  lovely  old  manor  house,  and  as  one 
looks  back  across  the  lawns  and  through  the  trees 
the  effect  is  not  only  dignified,  as  is  that  of  so  many 
college  gardens,  but  is  full  of  the  peace  and  quiet 
beauty  of  one  of  England's  stately  homes. 

Not  a  little  has  the  modern  revival  of  gardening, 
which  has  brought  back  the  old  herbaceous  border, 
added  to  the  charm  of  college  gardens.  It  has  been 
said  with  truth  that  the  secret  of  a  garden's  beauty 
lies  mainly  in  its  background.  How  true  this  is! 
Flowers  may  blaze  with  colour  in  an  open  field — and 
who  has  not  marvelled  as  he  passes  in  the  train  the 
seed -ground  of  some  great  horticulturist? — but  seen 
thus  they  have  but  little  charm.  In  a  college  garden 
a  border  filled  with  delphiniums  and  madonna  lilies 
is  backed  by  sombre  yews,  while  the  thick  foliage 
of  elm  or  chestnut  quiets  harmoniously  the  farther 


26  OXFORD 

distance.  See  how  the  spires  of  blue — now  declaring 
themselves  for  Oxford,  now  for  Cambridge — are  twice 
as  vivid  for  the  contrast,  and  how  the  lilies  shine 
against  the  deep  dark  green,  like  fairest  maidens 
round  some  black  panelled  hall!  Or  see  again  the 
monthly  roses,  blushing  at  intervals  along  an  old 
grey  wall:  how  tenderly  are  their  hues  enhanced 
by  contrast  with  the  time-stained  stones!  Such  are 
a  part  of  the  fascination  of  Oxford  gardens. 

Quite  unlike  these,  yet  having  an  attraction  of  their 
own  which  many  miss,  are  the  Botanical  Gardens 
hard  by  Magdalen  Bridge.  Their  situation  on  the 
brink  of  the  River  Cherwell,  and  almost  under  the 
shadow  of  Magdalen  Tower,  is  what  probably  appeals 
most  strongly  to  the  ordinary  observer,  while  those 
who  merely  pass  the  gardens  by  will  delight  in  the 
gateway,  the  work  of  Inigo  Jones,  with  its  statues 
of  Charles  I  and  II.  Formal  these  gardens  are  of 
necessity,  but  there  hangs  about  them  a  certain  feeling 
of  antiquity.  They  somehow  seem  to  take  their  place 
among  their  old-world  surroundings;  and  fitly  so,  for 
they  are  the  oldest  gardens  of  their  kind  in  the 
country,  having  been  originated  by  the  Earl  of  Danby 
as  an  assistance  to  the  study  of  medicine,  nearly 
three  hundred  years  ago. 

Across  the  way,  at  Magdalen  College,  exists  a 
pleasure  ground  which  cannot  rightly  be  included 


OXFORD  27 

among  Oxford's  gardens,  though  it  is  certainly  one 
of  her  best-known  natural  adornments.  This  is  the 
deer  park  adjoining  the  New  Buildings.  It  is  almost 
worth  while  in  the  summer  vacation  to  loiter  near 
the  narrrow  passage  leading  from  the  cloisters,  to 
witness  the  start  of  surprise  and  to  hear  the  sight- 
seers' remarks,  as  they  suddenly  come  out  from  the 
dusk  and  impressive  gloom  into  a  blaze  of  sunlight, 
with  gay  new  buildings  bright  with  window-boxes 
straight  before  them,  and  a  little  herd  of  dappled 
deer  feeding  in  the  sunshine  and  the  shadow  of  the 
park.  Hundreds  of  years  seem  to  roll  away:  the  very 
locality  appears  to  change:  the  visitor  could  scarcely 
look  more  astonished  if  he  were  suddenly  transported 
from  the  Coliseum  to  the  gardens  of  the  Tuileries! 
No  wonder  a  tourist  once  remarked,  as  he  issued  from 
the  cloisters:  "I  guess,  sir,  I've  riz  from  the  dead!" 

It  is  tempting  on  this  summer  day  to  linger  where 
grass  is  green  and  trees  throw  grateful  shade;  and 
indeed  it  would  seem  that  few  of  all  the  many  pens 
that  have  set  down  Oxford's  charms  have  given  their 
due  to  these  her  natural  delights.  But  there  is  much 
that  crowds  into  the  mind  and  urgently  complains 
lest  there  be  not  space  enough  to  do  them  honour. 
What  of  her  streets?  Perhaps  no  other  city  in  Eng- 
land— some  say  in  the  world — can  boast  of  streets  of 
equal  beauty. 


28  OXFORD 

From  Magdalen  gate  the  High  Street  begins  its 
curve — a  true  line  of  beauty.  Its  variety  of  architecture 
and  mixture  of  old  with  new  might  suggest  (to  those 
who  have  only  read  and  never  seen)  an  inharmonious 
whole.  But  somehow  this  is  not  so.  The  severe  front 
of  University  neither  kills  nor  is  killed  by  the  seven- 
teenth-century work,  with  eighteenth-century  cupola 
and  statue  of  George  ITs  consort,  just  across  the 
way.  The  old-world  shops  and  gabled  houses  contrast 
with  the  modern  buildings,  which  contain  the  new 
Examination  Schools,  or  show  where  some  college 
or  other  has  forced  its  way  into  the  High.  They 
contrast,  and  do  not  spoil  the  picture.  Indeed  it  will 
be  a  cause  of  much  lamentation,  if  more  of  these  old 
houses  of  the  citizens  of  Oxford  should  be  thrust  away, 
and  the  character  of  the  street  be  changed  to  one 
long  series  of  college  buildings,  losing  in  colour,  in 
variety,  and  in  antiquity,  and  especially  in  the  story 
that  it  still  tells  of  University  and  city  interdependent, 
and  seeking  each  the  other's  good.  It  is  the  glorious 
Church  of  St.  Mary  the  Virgin  that  seems  to  bind 
all  the  varying  charms  of  the  street  together.  Standing 
near  the  centre  of  the  High,  it  dominates  the  whole. 
The  stately  thirteenth-century  tower  with  its  massive 
buttresses  is  surmounted  by  "a  splendid  pyramidal 
group  of  turrets,  pinnacles,  and  windows  ",  from  which 
the  spire  shoots  upwards.  To  a  trained  eye  this  spire 


OXFORD  29 

is  a  continual  marvel,  when  seen  from  a  short  distance 
away,  on  account  of  the  transparency  of  colour  which 
for  some  unexplained  reason  it  presents.  A  silver 
grey  hardly  describes  it;  but  light  clothes  it  with  a 
diaphanous  glory,  now  warm  now  cool  in  colour,  and 
always  lovely.  Facing  the  street  is  an  ornate  Italian 
porch  with  twisted  pillars,  erected  in  1637.  Above 
the  entrance  is  the  famous  statue  of  the  Virgin 
and  Child  which  gave  such  offence  to  the  Puritans. 

What  stories  the  place  could  tell!  It  was  here  that 
John  Wycliffe  thundered  against  the  Romanism  of 
his  day.  It  was  here  that  Cranmer  recanted  his 
recantation,  and  promised  that  the  hand  that  wrote 
it  should  be  the  first  to  suffer  at  the  stake.  Hither, 
too,  were  laid  to  rest  the  remains  of  Amy  Robsart, 
brought  after  death  from  Cumnor.  Space  will  not 
allow  of  any  recital  of  the  famous  names  of  those 
who  have  occupied  the  University  pulpit  herein.  But 
memories  crowd  into  the  mind  as  the  rather  dreary 
interior  of  the  Church  is  pictured.  Here  some  thirty- 
six  or  seven  years  ago  an  undergraduate  went,  full 
of  expectation,  to  hear  Dr.  Pusey  preach.  The  crowd 
was  great,  and  he  had  to  stand,  while  for  an  hour 
and  a  half  or  so  the  great  man  poured  out  a  learned 
disquisition  against  the  Jews!  Here  too,  about  the 
same  time,  the  youthful  members  of  the  University 
flocked  to  hear  Burgon's  evening  sermons — quaint 


30  OXFORD 

and  original  as  the  man  himself — in  one  of  which, 
after  describing  the  episode  of  Balaam  and  the  ass, 
he  threw  up  his  hands  and  cried,  "To  think  that 
that  type  of  brutality  should  speak  with  the  voice  of 
a  man — it  delighteth  me  hugely!" 

One  of  the  beauties  of  the  streets  of  Oxford  is  that 
they  mostly  have  something  admirable  at  either  end. 
Thus  the  picture  of  the  High  Street  is  finished  at 
one  end  with  Magdalen  Tower  and  Bridge,  and  at 
the  other  with  Carfax  Church,  or  rather,  nowadays, 
with  all  that  is  left — a  very  ancient  tower — of  the  City 
Church  which  stood  upon  the  site  of  a  building  so 
old  that  coins  of  the  date  of  Athelstan  were  found 
beneath  its  pavement. 

Then  see  how  Broad  Street,  as  it  narrows  again 
towards  the  east,  gives  a  fine  view  of  the  Sheldonian 
Theatre,  where  many  who  have  helped  to  make  their 
country's  history,  have  been  honoured  by  the  grant- 
ing of  degrees,  and  of  the  Clarendon  Building  with 
its  lofty  pillared  porch,  where  once  the  University 
Press  was  housed.  Or  look  at  that  superb  approach 
to  Oxford  from  the  north,  a  boulevard  of  great  breadth 
and  dignity.  From  St.  Giles'  Church,  at  which  the  road 
from  Woodstock  and  from  Banbury  converge,  how  fine 
is  the  prospect  ending  as  it  does  in  the  tall  trees,  before 
the  dignified  front  of  St.  John's  College,  and  the  tower 
of  St.  Mary  Magdalen's  Church. 


OXFORD  31 

The  streets  of  Oxford!  What  scenes  have  been 
enacted  there!  Kings  and  queens  have  paced  them 
between  cheering  crowds ;  town  and  gown  have  surged 
and  struggled  up  and  down  their  length,  till  from  the 
highest  point  at  Carfax  the  water  was  turned  on  from 
Nicholson's  old  conduit  just  to  cool  their  ardour.  Now 
and  again  a  hush  has  fallen  on  all  the  city,  and  from 
St.  Mary's  booms  a  minute-bell.  Shops  are  half-closed 
and  flags  half-masted.  Then  through  the  silent  streets 
winds  a  black-robed  procession,  half  a  mile  in  length, 
and  one  of  Oxford's  best-known  sons  is  carried  to  his 
rest.  Or,  maybe,  all  is  bright  with  pleasure-seeking 
crowds  and  ladies  decked  in  all  their  bravery,  and 
just  a  glimpse  is  caught  of  scarlet  and  of  black,  with 
gleam  of  silver  mace,  as  the  Vice-Chancellor's  pro- 
cession goes  to  give  degrees.  Or,  just  once  more, 
a  line  of  Oxford  cabs  —  who  does  not  know  the 
Oxford  cab? — each  with  unlicensed  number  of  under- 
graduate fares,  goes  to  the  sound  of  rattle  and  of 
song  to  speed  the  departure  from  his  Alma  Mater's 
arms  of  one  who  has  outstepped  the  limits  of  her 
patience. 

So  it  goes  on:  a  varying  scene  of  dignity  and 
ribaldry,  taking  each  other's  place  from  time  to  time. 
But  most  often  through  all  the  years  the  streets  are 
filled  with  those  who,  day  by  day,  come  in  from  all 
the  country  round,  bringing  their  produce,  seeking 


32  OXFORD 

what  they  lack,  and  all  oblivious  of  the  learned  life 
of  Oxford. 

But  there  are  so  many  people,  to  whom  the  human 
interest  in  the  fairest  city  counts  for  more  than  all 
the  rest,  that  it  is  time  to  wander  among  the  quad- 
rangles, the  halls,  the  chapels,  and  the  other  ancient 
fabrics  that  speak  of  the  university  life  of  Oxford. 
As  we  pass  in  through  many  a  massive  gateway,  tread 
many  a  stone-paved  path,  climb  many  an  old  oak 
stair  worn  by  the  feet  of  many  generations,  it  is  strange 
if  no  strand  of  sentiment  puts  us  in  touch  with  some 
of  those  who  have  passed  that  way  before. 

And  first  to  Merton,  oldest  of  university  colleges. 
It  is  almost  sad  to  write  the  words,  for  it  is  hard 
not  to  feel  a  pang  of  regret  that  the  charming  old 
tale,  once  indeed  confirmed  by  the  Court  of  King's 
Bench  itself,  that  King  Alfred  founded  University 
College  in  the  High  Street  years  before  any  other 
was  suggested,  is  a  myth.  The  men  of  "Univ"  have 
at  least  the  consolation  that  the  tradition  has  existed, 
and  if,  in  spite  of  hard  facts,  they  cling  to  the  romance, 
there  will  be  few  to  blame  them.  It  was  Walter  de 
Merton,  Chancellor  of  England  and  Bishop  of  Roches- 
ter, who  invented  colleges  as  we  know  them,  and, 
by  founding  that  one  which  is  known  by  his  name, 
did,  in  1265,  set  the  model  for  all  future  collegiate 
establishments.  Mr.  Eric  Parker  in  "Oxford  and 


OXFORD  33 

Cambridge"  truly  says,  "Walter  de  Merton  founded 
more  than  Merton  College.  His  idea  of  a  community 
of  students  working  together  in  a  common  building 
towards  a  common  end,  inspired  by  the  same  influence 
and  guided  by  the  same  traditions,  was  the  first  and 
the  true  idea  of  all  colleges  founded  since." 

The  momentous  step  taken  by  this  great  Bishop  in 
thus  founding  an  institution  on  these  lines  for  the 
study  of  Theology,  is  remarkable  as  illustrating  the 
spirit  of  revolt  from  the  absorption  by  monks  and 
friars  of  all  existing  educational  affairs.  The  College 
was  strictly  limited  to  secular  clerks,  who  were  usent 
down  "  if  they  chose  to  join  any  of  the  regular  Orders. 
The  subsequent  religious  history  of  the  College  has 
had  curious  vicissitudes.  Wycliff  was  a  Fellow,  and 
Merton  stood  by  him  in  the  face  of  the  rest  of  Oxford. 
Then  came  a  wave  of  Romanism;  and  in  the  reign  of 
Mary  she  could  count  on  Merton  to  provide  fanatics 
in  her  cause.  A  Fellow  of  Merton  presided  over  the 
burning  of  Ridley  and  Latimer,  and  the  Vice-Chan- 
cellor who  preached  on  the  occasion  was  also  a  Merton 
man.  In  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth  century  all 
this  was  changed,  and  no  grimmer  Puritans  were  found 
in  Oxford  than  the  men  of  Merton.  It  seems  as  though 
the  founder's  spirit  of  religious  freedom  has  from  time 
to  time  cropped  up,  with  an  independence  and  hardi- 
hood worthy  of  his  name. 

(0147)  3 


34  OXFORD 

But  it  was  not  all  at  once  in  1265  that  the  College 
sprang  into  existence.  At  first  Walter  de  Merton 
housed  the  students  in  lodgings  in  what  is  now 
called  Merton  Street,  building  a  hall  and  kitchen  to 
provide  for  their  sustenance.  Then  followed  the  chapel 
with  its  grand  tower,  and  lastly  the  buildings  for  the 
students.  As  one  stands  in  the  quaint  little  Mob 
Quad  (the  origin  of  which  name  has  apparently  been 
lost)  it  is  good  to  realize  that  this  is  the  first 
collegiate  quadrangle  known.  How  far  the  thought 
takes  us  back!  How  near  to  the  fountainhead  of 
much  that  has  grown  familiar — so  familiar  that  few 
people,  and  no  undergraduates,  trouble  their  heads 
about  it!  It  is  just  there:  like  the  river,  and  the 
trees,  and  the  sky  it  exists,  but  why  or  how  it  came 
into  existence  matters  nothing  to  them.  Take  for 
example  the  office  of  Dean.  In  every  college  there 
is  a  Dean,  to  whom  is  committed  the  order  and  dis- 
cipline of  the  place.  Should  there  be  a  bonfire  in 
the  quad,  it  is  he  who  comes  out  and  frantically 
attempts  to  put  it  out.  Should  an  unlucky  under- 
graduate oversleep  himself  more  often  in  the  week 
than  college  rules  allow,  it  is  the  Dean  who  sends 
for  him  and  gates  him,  that  is  to  say,  confines  him 
within  the  college  gates  after  sunset  or  thereabouts. 
The  Dean  is  looked  upon  as  an  "institution",  not 
wholly  delightful  but  still  a  necessary  bit  of  Oxford 


OXFORD  35 

life;  but  very  few  undergraduates  are  aware  that  one 
must  go  back  to  the  times  of  Walter  de  Merton  to 
find  out  how  he  came  into  being.  The  life  of  a  student 
in  the  first  college  was  planned  to  be  lived  in  great 
simplicity.  His  fare  was  to  be  of  the  plainest,  and  he 
was  not  to  talk  at  dinner.  He  was  never  to  be  noisy. 
The  rules,  indeed,  went  so  far  as  to  say  that,  if  he 
wanted  to  talk  at  any  time,  he  must  talk  in  Latin. 
It  may  be  supposed  that  human  nature  was  much 
the  same  in  the  thirteenth  century  as  in  the  twentieth, 
and  such  a  life  must  have  proved  difficult  to  some. 
In  order  to  enforce  the  rules  one  student  in  every 
ten  was  made  a  kind  of  "praefect",  with  disciplinary 
power  over  the  others.  Hence  the  "decanus",  and 
lo!  the  first  of  all  the  Deans! 

Merton  had  not  existed  for  much  more  than  a 
century  when  it  became  possessed  through  the  mag- 
nificence of  Rede,  Bishop  of  Chichester,  of  its 
wonderful  library,  so  that  not  only  has  it  the  oldest 
quadrangle,  but  also  the  oldest  mediaeval  library  in 
the  kingdom.  There  is  not  a  room  in  Oxford  so 
impressive  with  a  sense  of  antiquity.  Its  lancet 
windows,  its  rough  desks  sticking  out  from  the 
bookcases,  the  chains  which  thwart  the  project  of 
the  book-thief,  all  help  to  obliterate  the  ages;  though 
the  decorations  of  the  ceiling,  and  the  stained-glass 
windows,  tell  of  the  desire  of  later  centuries  to  soften 


36  OXFORD 

the  original  sternness  of  the  room.  It  is  here  that 
one  must  wait  quietly  as  dusk  begins  to  fall,  if  one 
would  see  faint  forms  of  those  of  whom  Merton  boasts 
as  her  noblest  sons.  To  all  of  them  is  this  old 
room  familiar,  and  to  none  more  so  than  to  Henry 
Savile,  lover  of  books  and  warden  of  the  College 
just  three  hundred  years  ago.  He  it  was  who  induced 
Merton  to  give  prompt  and  generous  aid  to  that 
other  Fellow  of  the  College,  Sir  Thomas  Bodley, 
when  founding  the  great  library  that  bears  his  name. 
Surely  the  spirits  of  these  two  men  at  least  must 
haunt  the  place! 

And  he  who  wrote  of  Oxford's  sons — Anthony  Wood 
—is  he  too  never  here?  And  Patteson  and  Creighton 
of  these  later  days,  bishops  who  gave  their  lives, 
the  one  upon  a  savage  shore,  the  other  to  the  endless 
toil  of  the  great  diocese  of  London.  Do  they  not 
pass  along,  and  people  with  their  memory  the  shadowy 
recesses  of  this  ancient  place? 

Now  let  us  stroll  on  —  'tis  but  a  step  —  to  Christ 
Church.  Sometimes  it  seems  as  though  this  should 
take  precedence  of  all  other  colleges.  Its  chapel  is 
Oxford's  Cathedral,  its  quadrangles  are  the  finest, 
its  founder  was  in  some  ways  the  most  famous;  and 
lastly  (and  of  least  account),  if  one  who  has  tried  the 
task  of  "seeing  Oxford"  in  an  afternoon  is  asked 
what  he  remembers  best,  it  is  ten  to  one  that  he 


OXFORD  37 

will  say  "the  staircase  and  its  ceiling  leading  up  to 
Christ  Church  Hall".  And  it  is  of  extraordinarily 
impressive  beauty.  The  fan  groining  of  the  roof, 
supported  by  just  one  slender  column,  which  springs 
from  the  foot  of  the  staircase,  is  of  exquisite  form 
and  lightness.  Then  the  wide,  flat  steps  that  turn 
at  an  acute  angle,  and  then  lead  on  straight  to  the 
entrance  of  the  Hall,  form  a  worthy  approach  to  what 
has  been  described  as  the  grandest  of  all  mediaeval 
halls  in  the  kingdom,  except  only  that  at  West- 
minster. Let  us  stand  aside  here  for  a  moment  and 
picture  some  of  those  who  have  ascended  these 
stairs  in  days  gone  by.  A  fanfare  of  trumpets  sounds, 
and  Henry  VIII  goes  up  with  ponderous  step.  Here 
too  comes  Queen  Elizabeth,  jesting  in  caustic  fashion 
with  her  courtiers,  as  she  sweeps  along  to  witness 
a  dramatic  entertainment  in  the  Hall.  Of  lesser 
folk  there  pass  by  Dr.  Fell  ("I  do  not  like  thee, 
Dr.  Fell"),  who  finished  the  building  of  Tom  Quad 
in  1665;  and  then  a  quiet  studious-looking  man,  a 
fellow  or  senior  student  of  the  College,  who  has 
nothing  in  his  appearance  to  call  attention.  But  this 
is  Burton,  by  some  accounted  a  morose  person,  but 
by  those  who  knew  him  intimately  a  cheery  and  witty 
companion.  Here,  too,  with  slow  and  faltering  step 
comes  Pusey  in  extreme  old  age,  and  Liddon  of  ascetic 
mien.  Hark  to  the  laughter!  It  is  Stubbs— historian 


38  OXFORD 

Bishop — with  witty  saying  falling  from  his  lips.  And 
there  is  Liddell,  feared  of  the  undergraduate,  but 
splendid  both  in  figure  and  in  face.  And  many  another 
shade  would  fancy  depict  taking  the  old  familiar  way: 
men  of  renown,  but  none,  however  royal  his  demeanour, 
however  high  his  literary  rank,  none  to  compare  with 
him,  Wolsey  the  great  Cardinal,  the  founder  of  the 
place. 

It  is  worth  while  before  we  explore  further  to  think 
for  a  few  moments  about  this  wonderful  personality, 
one  of  the  most  remarkable  of  all  Oxford's  sons.  At 
the  very  end  of  the  fifteenth  century  he  is  discovered 
as  a  Junior  Fellow  of  Magdalen,  then  as  Dean  of 
Divinity,  and  in  the  first  years  of  the  next  century 
as  Rector  of  Lymington.  Rapidly  climbing  the  eccles- 
iastical tree,  he  reappears  as  Cardinal  Archbishop  of 
York,  and  resumes  his  close  connection  with  Oxford, 
in  the  guise  of  a  great  promoter  of  learning,  paying 
the  salaries  of  lecturers  out  of  his  own  pocket  and 
so  on.  But  the  position  of  a  mere  patron  of  educa- 
tion did  not  satisfy  his  ambition.  He  determined  on 
founding  a  college  which  should  eclipse  even  that  of 
Wykeham — the  already  famous  New  College.  He  was 
a  rich  man,  but  the  vast  undertaking  upon  which  he 
had  set  his  heart  could  not  be  paid  for  out  of  the 
private  purse  of  any  living  man.  He  was  in  high 
favour  with  the  King,  and  persuaded  him  to  allow 


OXFORD  39 

him  to  plunder  the  monasteries,  and  devote  the  pro- 
ceeds to  the  expenses  of  the  great  foundation  which 
he  called  Cardinal's  College.  Besides  several  small 
religious  houses,  he,  in  1522,  obtained  the  surrender 
of  the  Priory  of  St.  Frideswide  in  Oxford  itself. 

Wolsey  was  possessed  of  sufficient  funds  to  make 
a  beginning.  Clearing  away  some  portion  of  the  old 
Church  of  St.  Frideswide,  he  laid  the  foundation  of 
what  afterwards  became  Christ  Church  in  the  summer 
of  1525.  The  work  went  on  apace,  but  in  a  very  few 
years  there  came  a  serious  check.  Henry  VIII  had 
made  up  his  mind  to  marry  Ann  Boleyn,  and  this 
particular  matrimonial  venture  had  a  curious  influ- 
ence on  the  fortunes  of  the  College.  It  came  about 
in  this  way.  To  marry  Ann,  it  was  necessary  for  the 
King  to  get  his  marriage  with  Catherine  dissolved. 
The  Papacy  declined  to  grant  the  decree.  The  ulti- 
mate result  of  this  was  Henry's  determination  to  free 
himself  and  his  country  from  the  power  of  Rome. 
This  in  its  turn  resulted  in  Wolsey's  downfall.  The 
work  of  building  Cardinal's  College  ceased,  and  there 
was  a  great  probability  that  the  beginning  already 
made  would  be  demolished.  The  King,  however, 
changed  his  mind,  and  in  1532  refounded  and  endowed 
it.  It  now  received  the  name  of  King  Henry  VIII's 
College.  This  title  it  bore  for  some  fourteen  years, 
at  the  end  of  which  the  See  of  Oxford  was  removed 


40  OXFORD 

from  Olney  Abbey  to  St.  Frideswide's,  which  had 
already  become  a  part  of  the  College.  From  that 
date  the  whole  foundation,  partly  educational  and 
partly  ecclesiastical  in  character,  became  one  institu- 
tion, and  was  then  and  for  ever  after  called  Christ 
Church.  It  is  an  extraordinary  story,  and,  mixed  up 
as  it  is  with  the  rise  and  fall  of  Cardinal  Wolsey, 
lends  a  great  amount  of  human  interest  to  the  in- 
spection of  the  College. 

There  is  nothing  else  at  all  like  it  in  existence. 
Collegiate  and  ecclesiastical  life  are  inextricably  mixed 
up.  There  is  a  Dean:  but  instead  of  being  an  official 
appointed  to  keep  order  among  the  undergraduates, 
he  is  both  Head  of  the  College  and  Dean  of  the  Cathe- 
dral. The  great  quadrangle  is  partly  like  the  quad 
of  another  college,  in  containing  certain  sets  of  rooms 
in  the  occupation  of  undergraduates,  and  partly  like 
a  cathedral  close,  inasmuch  as  therein  is  the  Deanery 
and  the  residences  of  an  archdeacon  and  canons. 
The  Cathedral  itself  is,  though  small,  a  dignified  and 
beautiful  building  of  true  cathedral  character.  At  the 
same  time  it  is  the  College  Chapel,  and  the  undergrad- 
uates who  daily  attend  its  services  are  privileged  to 
worship  in  a  magnificent  fane,  but  at  the  same  time 
must  lose  that  sense  of  what,  for  want  of  a  better  word, 
must  be  called  the  home-like  charm  which  endears 
to  so  many  their  College  Chapel.  The  scenes,  too,  that 


OXFORD  41 

the  quadrangles  witness  are  curiously  varied.  Now 
there  is  a  procession  of  divines  wending  their  way 
to  some  diocesan  function,  with  bishops  and  chaplains 
bringing  up  the  rear,  and  anon  a  crowd  of  undergrad- 
uates, smarting  beneath  some  fancied  grievance,  or 
merely  celebrating  some  success  upon  the  river,  noisily 
express  their  wish  to  paint  the  college  red. 

But  Christ  Church  is  not  the  only  unique  college 
in  Oxford.  As  there  is  no  other  to  be  found  in  any 
university  so  curiously  combined  with  the  cathedral 
and  ecclesiastical  dignitaries  of  a  see,  so  is  there  no 
other,  in  this  country  at  all  events,  that  has  preserved 
its  original  intention,  as  a  college  for  Fellows  only,  as 
has  All  Souls.  Here  no  noisy  undergraduate  is  allowed 
to  disturb  the  calm.  There  are,  indeed,  four  Bible 
Clerks  who  are  undergraduate  members  and  reside 
within  its  walls,  but  their  very  name  is  enough  to 
guarantee  their  unobtrusive  respectability — if  indeed 
they  exist  in  the  flesh  at  all,  for  it  is  said  that  none 
except  the  Fellows  of  the  College  have  ever  seen  one! 
The  foundation  is  rich  both  in  money  and  in  fine 
buildings.  Taking  no  share  in  education  within  its 
own  walls — having,  that  is  to  say,  none  of  the  usual 
routine  of  college  lectures  and  so  on — it  has  had  to 
justify  the  retention  of  its  wealth.  This  it  has  done 
to  the  full,  for  it  provides  a  large  part  of  the  funds 
for  the  teaching  of  Law  in  the  University,  and  greatly 


42  OXFORD 

aids  the  study  of  Modern  History.  It  also  has  shown 
itself  most  liberal  in  supplying  the  wherewithal  for 
the  ever-increasing  needs  of  the  Bodleian  Library. 

To  most  people  All  Souls  is  chiefly  familiar  for  its 
entrance  facing  the  High  Street,  with  porch  and  tower 
of  the  founder's  date  (1437),  and  for  its  chapel  and 
library.  The  chapel  possesses  in  its  reredos  a  work 
of  art  which  is  one  of  the  chief  goals  of  the  sight- 
seer in  Oxford.  It  covers  the  entire  east  wall,  and 
consists  of  an  immense  series  of  niches,  in  which  are 
numberless  statues,  surrounding  a  crucifixion  scene  in 
the  centre.  Of  its  kind  it  is  certainly  the  most  beau- 
tiful thing  in  the  whole  University.  It  was  robbed 
of  its  statues  and  walled  up  in  the  seventeenth  century, 
but  has  been  restored  with  wonderful  success  a  quarter 
of  a  century  ago.  The  Library,  called  after  its  donor, 
Sir  Christopher  Codrington,  is  singularly  beautiful  in 
decoration.  It  is  200  feet  long,  and  contains  every 
imaginable  book  necessary  for  the  Student  of  Law. 
By  permitting  a  very  wide  use  of  this  room  All  Souls 
College  gives  one  more  evidence  of  its  desire  to  further 
the  general  educational  work  of  Oxford. 

Within  the  walls  of  a  place  so  redolent  of  Law  it 
is  not  strange  to  find  that  Blackstone  (he  of  the 
"Commentaries")  had  his  rooms,  but  it  is  remarkable 
to  find  how  diverse  are  the  professions  which  have 
been  adorned  by  Fellows  of  All  Souls.  Statesmen 


BRASENOSE  COLLEGE  AND   RADCLIFFE   LIBRARY   ROTUNDA 


OXFORD  43 

one  might  expect,  and  it  is  not  difficult  to  conjure  up 
the  form  of  the  late  Marquis  of  Salisbury,  stooping 
over  a  volume  of  Constitutional  Law  in  the  Codrington 
Library.  Easier,  perhaps,  to  imagine  him  thus  than 
in  the  garb  of  a  Christian  warrior,  as  he  stands  in 
one  of  the  niches  of  the  Chapel  reredos.  The  Fellows 
of  All  Souls  are  supposed  under  their  statutes  to  be 
splendide  vestiti,  and  in  this  respect  Lord  Salisbury, 
who  was  probably  never  aware  of  what  he  wore,  must 
have  singularly  fallen  short  of  the  standard.  But 
even  so  he  would  seem  a  more  natural  personage 
to  haunt  the  still  quadrangles  of  the  College  than  his 
antagonist,  Mr.  Gladstone,  who  was  an  honorary  Fel- 
low of  the  College,  but  whose  impulsive,  eager  vivacity 
would  harmonize  ill  with  the  spirit  of  the  place. 

To-day  it  seems  almost  strange  to  find  that  All 
Souls  has  recruited  the  ranks  of  great  ecclesiastics, 
but  so  it  is.  From  there  came  Archbishop  Sheldon, 
Bishops  Heber  and  Jeremy  Taylor,  and  many  other 
great  divines.  Even  Architecture  can  claim  a  Fellow- 
ship of  All  Souls  for  one  of  its  greatest  masters,  Sir 
Christopher  Wren. 

But  time  presses.  Oxford,  all  beautiful  in  her 
surroundings,  great  in  her  history,  splendid  in  her 
buildings,  unique  in  such  foundations  as  have  just 
been  described,  means  so  much  more  to  most  who 
have  claimed  her  as  their  Alma  Mater.  They  have 


44  OXFORD 

had  some  inkling  of  all  these  things:  especially 
perhaps  they  have  imbibed,  and  made  their  lifelong 
possession,  a  sense  of  her  natural  charms:  but  no 
matter  what  their  college  may  have  been,  no  matter 
how  little  illustrious,  historically  or  architecturally,  it 
is  round  the  college  life,  the  rooms,  the  friendships, 
the  homely  details,  that  their  loving  memory  hangs. 
It  is  there  that  first  they  knew  what  independence 
meant:  there  that  the  chairs  and  table  were  their 
very  own:  there  that  they  could  come  and  go 
almost  as  they  liked:  there  that  they  first  knew 
the  delight  of  voluntary  work. 

How  it  all  comes  back!  A  freshman  passes  the 
Entrance  Examination  just  well  enough  to  get  rooms 
in  College — the  last  set  vacant.  They  look  out  upon 
a  wall  at  the  back  of  the  buildings;  in  themselves 
they  are  small  and  dark,  the  bedroom  a  mere  cup- 
board. But  they  are  his  own.  He  enters  and  finds 
a  pot  of  marmalade  and  a  tin  of  Bath  Olivers  on 
the  table,  put  there  by  the  forethought  of  his  scout. 
He  gets  his  boxes  open:  hangs  up  the  school 
groups  and  the  picture  of  his  home:  puts  his  books 
into  the  shelves — and  has  made  his  abode  complete. 
He  waits  impatiently  for  the  cap  and  gown  he 
has  ordered.  The  door  flies  open,  and  in  rushes 
his  special  friend,  who  has  preceded  him  from  Marl- 
borough.  The  old  threads  are  picked  up  and 


OXFORD  45 

knit  together  in  a  moment — and  so  the  life  begins. 
There  is  not  much  variety  from  day  to  day:  chapel 
first  thing,  at  which  five  attendances  are  required 
weekly,  Sunday  morning  service  (owing  to  its  length) 
counting  as  two  —  then  breakfast,  seldom  altogether 
alone.  It  is  the  most  sociable  meal  of  the  day,  which 
says  much  for  the  youth  and  health  of  the  breakfasters ! 
Should  it  be  Sunday  the  undergraduate  may  hope 
(often  in  vain)  to  be  asked  to  breakfast  by  some  man 
in  lodgings.  Otherwise  he  will  be  condemned  to 
feed  either  upon  cold  chicken — tasteless  and  a  little 
dry — or  upon  gherkin  pie,  known  only  (by  the  mercy 
of  Providence)  to  certain  colleges  in  Oxford,  and 
consisting  of  a  dish  of  cold  fat,  interspersed  with 
gherkins,  and  covered  with  lid  of  heavy  pastry. 

Afterwards,  on  week  days,  there  are  lectures,  then 
a  quick  change  to  flannels  and  a  hurried  luncheon, 
and  then  in  summertime  the  river  or  the  cricket 
fields.  Back  again  he  comes  to  cold  supper  and 
long  draughts  of  shandygaff  in  hall;  then  a  pipe 
or  two  and  a  chat,  and  then  (sometimes)  a  spell  of 
reading  before  bed  and  sleep.  But  all  this  is  nearly 
forty  years  ago: — a  mere  memory: — but  yet  it  is  things 
like  these  that  first  come  to  mind  when  Oxford's  name 
is  heard. 

And  then  the  scout!  How  many  memories  he 
brings!  The  college  servants  were  a  race  apart 


46  OXFORD 

with  curious  standards  of  their  own.  It  is  true  they 
fattened  on  the  undergraduate.  Did  not  the  cook 
of  a  certain  college  disdain  to  enter  his  son  at  the 
college  for  which  he  cooked,  and  send  him  to  Christ 
Church?  Did  not  each  scout  bear  away  all  that 
was  left  upon  his  masters'  tables  in  a  vast  basket, 
beneath  the  weight  of  which  he  could  scarcely  stagger 
home?  Quite  true,  but  all  the  same  how  would  the 
freshman  have  fared  had  not  his  scout  looked  after 
him,  seen  that  he  did  what  it  behoved  him  to  do, 
and  kept  him  not  seldom  from  some  faux  pas?  A 
senior  scout  had  often  an  almost  fatherly  regard  for 
the  men  upon  his  staircase.  One,  who  conies  at 
once  to  mind,  would  stand  and  urge  and  argue  long 
enough  by  the  bedside  of  some  lazy  youth,  for  whom 
an  interview  with  the  Dean  was  imminent,  persuading 
him  to  get  up  for  Chapel,  and  the  same  man  would 
take  it  seriously  to  heart  if  any  of  his  particular 
gentlemen  behaved  in  a  manner  which  he  considered 
unseemly.  A  good  scout  attached  himself  to  his  many 
masters  and  never  forgot  them.  If  any  member  of 
a  college  revisits  his  old  haunts  after  years  of 
absence,  the  one  man  who  may  be  depended  upon 
to  give  him  a  warm  welcome  is  his  old  scout. 

Of  the  tutors  and  fellows  of  the  colleges,  and  their 
frequent  kindness  to  the  junior  members  of  their 
college,  this  is  not  the  place  to  expatiate.  They 


OXFORD  47 

are  of  course  an  intimate  part  of  every  man's  college 
life,  and  around  them  many  happy  memories  will 
generally  dwell.  The  point  that  it  is  desired  to 
emphasize  is  that,  in  looking  back  upon  Oxford,  it 
is  these  matters  that  have  been  briefly  described — 
the  details  of  the  college  and  the  college  life  —  that 
are  remembered  with  the  greatest  affection. 

A  Trinity  man  will  tell  you  of  the  Grinling  Gibbons 
carvings  in  the  Chapel,  but  he  thinks  with  greater 
tenderness  of  an  old  armchair  in  his  rooms  in  the 
garden  quad.  A  Corpus  man  will  take  a  pride  in 
belonging  to  a  college  that  has  always  set  before 
itself  a  high  standard  of  learning,  and  is  suitably 
possessed  of  a  magnificent  old  library,  but  it  is  of 
his  quaint  old  rooms  in  the  little  quiet  quad  that  he 
dreams,  when  his  thoughts  go  back  again  to  Oxford. 

The  mention  of  Corpus  brings  to  mind  the  fact, 
that  this  is  almost  the  only  college  of  those  in  the  front 
rank  to  retain  the  charm  of  being  small  both  in  size 
and  in  numbers.  All  who  have  in  their  day  belonged 
to  a  college  of  this  kind  will  remember  with  pleasure 
the  absence  of  "  sets  ",  and  the  possibility  of  knowing 
every  other  member  of  the  college.  Were  Corpus 
to  be  revisited  to-day  by  any  of  its  distinguished 
members  of  the  past,  such  as  Lord  Tenterden,  John 
Taylor  Coleridge,  Dr.  Arnold  of  Rugby,  or  John 
Keble,  he  would  find  far  less  change  than  in  almost 


48  OXFORD 

any  other  college  in  Oxford.  Till  lately  much  the 
same  might  have  been  said  of  Oriel,  where  one  is 
brought  to  a  pause  the  moment  the  gate  is  passed 
by  the  sight  of  one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  all  quad- 
rangles, of  which  the  chief  adornment  is  the  charming 
porch  of  the  hall,  with  its  canopy  and  wide  flight 
of  steps.  But  Oriel  is  no  longer  to  rank  as  one  of 
the  moderate-sized  colleges.  Enriched  by  Mr.  Rhodes 
it  has  pushed  its  way  into  the  High  Street,  and  a 
new  quadrangle  is  beginning  already  to  arise.  The 
fame  of  the  College  has  been  great.  It  has  sent  out 
an  extraordinarily  large  number  of  prominent  Church- 
men, and  the  place  is  also  full  of  memories  of  such 
men  as  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  Gilbert  White,  Tom 
Hughes,  and  that  great  provost  and  scholar  Dr. 
Monro.  It  must  be  hoped  that  its  increase  in  size, 
and  the  publicity  of  its  buildings,  will  not  detract 
from  the  excellence  of  the  College,  though  it  must 
be  allowed  that,  by  joining  the  ranks  of  the  larger 
colleges,  it  loses  something  of  its  individuality  and 
charm. 

Among  those  larger  foundations  Balliol  is  perhaps 
the  best  known,  and  in  some  ways  the  most  re- 
markable. It  has  had  a  curious  history.  Founded 
almost  at  the  same  time  as  Merton,  it  is  by  its  own 
members  held  to  be  the  oldest  of  all  the  colleges. 
But  alas!  the  front  that  it  presents,  though  respectable 


BOTANIC   GARDENS   AND   MAGDALEN   TOWER 


OXFORD  49 

enough,  is  quite  modern,  and  cannot  be  included  among 
the  things  that  help  to  make  Oxford  lovely.  Then, 
again,  for  hundreds  of  years  it  remained  an  obscure 
place  with  no  pretensions  of  any  kind.  Since  the 
Mastership  of  Dr.  Jenkyn  in  comparatively  recent 
times  it  has  managed,  by  throwing  open  its  scholar- 
ships, to  attract  the  finest  scholars  from  all  over  the 
country.  It  can  now  boast  a  world- wide  reputation; 
for  the  Balliol  scholarship  is  known  by  all  to  be  the 
chief  prize  offered  in  the  University. 

Balliol  has  had  many  remarkable  masters,  but  none 
more  so  than  Dr.  Benjamin  Jowett,  a  man  of  such 
wide  sympathies  that  he  attracted  to  the  College  an 
extraordinary  assortment  of  men.  Not  only  were  dis- 
tinguished men  of  learning  to  be  found  there,  but  a 
good  sprinkling  of  the  scions  of  the  noble  houses  of 
the  country,  while  rooms  were  always  found  for  men 
of  every  colour  and  nationality — Jews,  Turks,  infidels 
and  heretics.  As  the  men  so  the  buildings  present 
an  extraordinary  mixture.  The  Library  and  the  old 
Dining  Hall  are  of  fifteenth-century  work.  The  new 
Hall  and  the  principal  front  (already  mentioned)  are 
by  Waterhouse — mid- Victorian ;  while,  to  crown  all, 
the  Chapel  was  erected  by  Butterfield,  whose  con- 
fidence in  his  own  creations  prevented  him  from  being 
influenced  by  the  great  architectural  beauties  of  Ox- 
ford, and  caused  him  to  have  no  hesitation  in  setting 

(  0 147  )  4 


50  OXFORD 

up  buildings,  so  incongruous  with  the  spirit  of  Ox- 
ford, as  Balliol  Chapel  and  Keble  College.  It  is, 
then,  for  its  mental,  rather  than  its  physical  beauty, 
that  Balliol  claims  attention.  The  inevitable  mention 
of  the  College  has  taken  up  space,  which  might  well 
have  been  bestowed  upon  the  many  lovely  bits  of 
ancient  stonework  that  feast  the  eye  in  quiet  corners 
and  retired  quadrangles,  each  going  to  form  that 
inner  beauty  which  Oxford  wears  within  her  robe  of 
natural  adornment. 

But  there  are  more  secret  treasures  still.  It  is 
wonderful  as  one  contemplates  the  walls,  the  towers, 
the  domes,  the  battlements,  the  spires,  that  mark  the 
position  of  this  or  that  famous  portion  of  the  University 
city,  to  try  to  realize  the  wealth  of  treasure  that  is 
hidden  there.  The  foreigner  who  comes  in  August 
and  sits  upon  the  steps  of  the  Clarendon  Building 
while  he  studies  Baedeker  from  beneath  the  shadow 
of  a  tilted  Panama,  knows  most  about  them.  Most, 
that  is  to  say,  excepting  always  the  knowledge  of 
those  to  whose  care  they  are  entrusted.  The  ordinary 
English  man  or  woman,  unconnected  with  Oxford, 
has  never  heard  of  them.  The  undergraduate  and  the 
ordinary  don  has  seen  some  part  just  now  and  then, 
when  some  enthusiastic  guests  have  had  to  be  taken 
round  the  sights. 

And  yet  a  book  of  many  volumes  might  be  written 


OXFORD  51 

to  tell  of  the  things  both  rare  and  exquisite  that 
Oxford  hugs  most  close  to  her  breast.  He  who 
cares  to  look  may  find  them  everywhere.  There  is 
not  a  college  in  all  the  University  that  does  not 
possess  something  precious,  either  for  its  intrinsic 
beauty  or  for  its  historical  interest.  And  it  is  not 
hard  to  find  these  treasures:  they  are  gladly  shown 
to  all  who  care  to  see;  though  it  might  be  thought, 
from  the  small  general  knowledge  of  their  existence, 
that  they  are  so  jealously  guarded  as  to  make  it 
next  to  impossible  to  gain  access  to  them.  In  the 
Bodleian  Library  alone  are  countless  objects  of  the 
greatest  beauty  and  interest  spread  out  beneath  glass 
cases  for  all  who  will  to  see.  Scores  of  illuminated 
manuscripts  of  all  nations,  and  of  such  age  that  it 
is  a  marvel  to  see  the  colours  still  so  bright  and  pure: 
historical  books  and  documents  of  the  most  fascinating 
description,  such  as  the  exercise  books  used  by 
Edward  VI  and  Elizabeth  when  children:  the  collection 
of  relics  of  Oxford's  greatest  poet,  Shelley, — his  watch, 
some  few  autograph  poems,  and  more  than  one  por- 
trayal of  his  refined  and  rather  boyish  face. 

Speaking  of  portraits  brings  to  mind  the  wealth 
of  these  that  in  the  picture  galleries,  and  in  college 
halls  and  libraries,  Oxford  possesses.  Not  only  does 
she  prize  them  for  their  beauty — and  how  great  that 
is  can  best  be  seen  in  Christ  Church  Hall,  upon  the 


52  OXFORD 

walls  of  which  the  works  of  Gainsborough,  Hogarth, 
Lely,  Reynolds  and  other  great  painters  hang — but 
from  the  story  that  they  tell  of  the  fame  her  sons 
have  won,  and  of  the  love  they  bore  her,  in  token  of 
which  they  joyfully  poured  out  their  wealth  that  she 
might  be  more  worthily  adorned. 

Of  other  pictures  too  Oxford  has  goodly  store. 
Over  two  hundred  thousand  engraved  portraits  are 
in  the  Hope  Collection,  while  water-colours  by  Turner, 
David  Cox,  and  other  masters  are  the  gems  of  the 
Ashmolean  collection.  Keble  College  cherishes  one 
famous  picture.  In  the  Liddon  Memorial  Chapel  is 
hung  Holman  Hunt's  "Light  of  the  World". 

How  much  the  beauty  of  the  interior  of  Oxford's 
ancient  buildings  is  increased  by  the  glowing  colours 
of  the  light,  that  finds  its  way  through  stained-glass 
windows,  it  is  hard  to  say.  These  windows  are  so 
numerous  and  so  beautiful  that  it  is  difficult  to  imagine 
what  many  a  chapel,  hall,  and  library  would  be 
without  them.  They  are  of  every  date,  from  ancient 
fragments,  such  as  may  be  seen  in  the  windows  of 
the  Library  at  Trinity,  to  the  great  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds'  window  in  New  College  Chapel,  and  the 
still  later  examples  of  Burne- Jones'  art,  which  are 
among  the  chief  beauties  of  the  Cathedral;  and  they 
include  such  splendid  instances  of  old  Flemish  art 
as  may  be  found  in  Lincoln  College  Chapel. 


OXFORD  53 

Of  carved  work  in  wood  and  stone  there  is  much 
that  is  precious,  though  many  of  the  larger  statues 
are  not  examples  of  the  highest  form  of  art.  Still 
there  are  traceries  and  capitals  of  exquisite  design 
to  be  found  everywhere,  and  of  statuary  there  is  at 
least  Onslow  Ford's  pathetic  figure  of  the  poet  Shelley 
to  be  seen  at  University  College,  beneath  a  dome 
which  does  its  best  to  mar  the  whole  effect. 

Of  wood  carvings  the  most  beautiful  are  Grinling 
Gibbons'  work  at  Trinity  and  Queen's,  and  the  most 
interesting  the  old  oak  altar  at  Wadham,  brought 
there  from  Ilminster,  the  home  of  Nicholas  and  Dorothy 
Wadham,  the  founders  of  the  College. 

New  College  and  Corpus  each  can  boast  the  pos- 
session of  their  founder's  pastoral  staff,  silver  gilt,  and 
in  the  former  case  both  jewelled  and  enamelled;  while 
Exeter  and  Magdalen  prize  among  their  chief  trea- 
sures tapestry  hangings  of  great  beauty,  the  former 
designed  by  Burne-Jones,  and  executed  by  William 
Morris  (both  Hon.  Fellows  of  the  College),  the  latter 
of  considerable  antiquity,  having  been  presented  to 
the  College  by  Prince  Arthur,  son  of  Henry  VII. 
But  so  innumerable  are  the  artistic  delights  hidden 
in  every  corner  of  Oxford  that  it  is  impossible  to  do 
more  than  thus  suggest  their  existence. 

And  now,  before  it  is  quite  time  to  turn  away,  we 
will  out  into  the  sunshine  once  again.  There  is  one 


54  OXFORD 

memory  of  Oxford  to  which  expression  has  not  yet 
been  given.  It  is  connected  with  the  sparkle,  the 
gladness,  the  sunshine  of  the  place:  it  is  the  music 
of  the  sound  of  Oxford — the  song,  if  you  will,  it 
always  used  to  sing.  To-day  there  is  a  difference. 
The  rumble  of  the  tramcar,  the  hoot  of  the  motor, 
are  heard  in  her  streets,  and  since  the  era  of  much 
married  fellows,  the  wail  of  the  infant  rises  from  the 
solid  phalanx  of  perambulators  on  the  pavement.  But 
once  upon  a  time — how  long  ago! — all  through  the 
summer  day  and  summer  night  there  was  a  kind  of 
music  in  the  air.  The  whisper  of  the  wind  that 
stirred  the  willows  made  soft  accompaniment  of  the 
splash  of  paddle  in  the  stream:  the  birds  sang  lustily 
amid  the  gentle  rustle  of  the  garden  trees,  and  when 
the  thrush  retired  to  roost  the  nightingale  took  up 
the  tale.  The  very  footfall  of  the  men  hurrying  to 
lecture  was  a  pleasant  sound,  for  then  they  needed 
not  to  punctuate  their  progress  with  the  sharp  tang 
of  the  bicycle  bell.  And  best  of  all  the  bells  made 
music  morning  and  evening  at  the  chapel  hours.  Not 
the  despairing  music  of  a  peal,  that  falls  and  rises  only 
to  fall  again,  till  nervous  men  are  racked,  but  a  cheer- 
ful note — just  one — but  different  from  each  side;  and, 
amongst  all,  that  one  that  each  man  knew  to  be  his 
own  and  loved,  and  knows  it  still  to-day  and  loves  it 
still.  It  is  true  enough  that  other  sounds,  less  musical, 


OXFORD  55 

are  heard  by  memory's  ears.  Sometimes  the  nightin- 
gale would  take  to  flight,  affronted  that  her  note  was 
drowned  by  "  the  shout  of  them  that  triumph,  the  song 
of  them  that  feast",  as  the  College  kept  high  revel 
in  honour  of  the  Eight.  Even  now  it  is  possible 
to  hear  the  raucous  yell  of  "  Dra-ag  ",  to  summon  those 
who  lingered  over  luncheon  and  kept  the  char-a-banc 
from  starting  for  the  Cowley  cricket  grounds,  and  none 
who  have  once  heard  it  can  forget  the  roar  mingled 
with  the  rattles,  pistol  shots  and  bells,  that  draws 
closer  and  even  closer,  as  the  Eights  come  racing  to 
the  Barges.  Scarcely  music,  perhaps,  but  for  all  that 
a  part  of  the  song  of  Oxford  life. 

But  in  all  the  sweetest  sounds  that  have  till  now 
gone  up  from  earth  to  heaven  Oxford  has  had  its 
part.  Not  only  have  birds  and  meadows,  trees  and 
rippling  streams  made  constant  music  to  the  God  who 
made  them,  but  the  heart  and  voice  of  man  have  not 
unworthily  joined  in.  What  of  Keble  and  Clough  from 
Oriel,  singing  indeed  a  different  strain,  but  singing  for 
all  that?  What  of  Bishops  Heber  and  Ken,  from  All 
Souls  and  from  New?  Of  Robert  Browning  of  Balliol, 
and  Landor  Trinity's  chief  poet?  And  lastly  what  of 
Shelley,  recognized  at  last  as  singer  of  immortal  verse? 
These  and  a  host  of  lesser  songsters,  each  with  his 
several  songs,  joining  with  the  glorious  harmonies  that 
have  for  so  long  been  sent  up  from  Magdalen,  New 


56  OXFORD 

College,  and  from  that  ancient  fane  where  once  St. 
Frideswide  rested,  make  good  the  claim  of  Oxford 
as  a  city  of  sweet  song. 

There  is  no  more  to  say — or  rather  there  is  no  space 
in  which  to  say  it — and  thoughts  which  have  been 
revelling  in  Oxford's  loveliness  must  be  turned  once 
more  to  the  homelier  duties  from  which  they  have 
for  a  while  escaped,  and  he  who  writes  must  lay 
aside  his  pen  all  sorrowful  that  on  such  a  theme  he 
could  no  better  write. 

And  he  who  reads?  Surely  someone  will  say  "So 
this  is  Oxford!  This  is  the  chief  of  all  our  seats  of 
learning,  and  no  word  of  wise  professors  or  of  lecture 
halls!"  Just  so.  It  is  not  at  the  lectures  men  learn 
most.  It  is  the  spirit  of  the  place,  the  friends  they 
make,  the  living  in  an  atmosphere  so  fair  and  sweet, 
that  counts  for  almost  all.  It  must  be  that,  wherever 
they  may  walk  in  after  years,  their  share  in  what 
has  been  wrought  so  beautiful  and  hallowed  by  the 
life  and  work  of  noble  men,  will  tend  to  guide  their 
footsteps  in  the  higher  path. 


A     000  492  549     1 


